


Coming Home (Chicago Blues)

by legoline



Category: Supernatural, due South
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:33:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legoline/pseuds/legoline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two weeks after Sam's turned fourteen, Dean wakes up to find Sam's run away. Dean follows him to Chicago, where he meets a horribly polite Mountie and a deaf wolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Home (Chicago Blues)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Roadie who introduced me to _Due South_ and wished for a crossover fanfic. 
> 
> A heartfelt "thank you" to Malnpudl for the wonderful beta.

Sam is a gangly boy with too big hands and too big feet. Like Mickey Mouse minus the ears, though naturally he’s much taller than Mickey Mouse. He hates the comparison all the more because it fits. His tall figure sticks out wherever he goes and he hates it and pulls his shoulders up, bends his back a little to shrink himself. There are some pimples on his face, spread like dots in painting books and who knows, if you connect them maybe you’ll end up having a drawing of someone. 

It's a week after Sam turned fourteen when Dean wakes up one morning and rolls over to find that Sam’s bed across the room is empty. And Dean’s heart skips a beat.

He knows. There’s There's no need to search the house and then the garden and the vast wheat fields beyond; there’s even less use of dropping by the library or the baseball team where Sam likes to hang out and watch, wishing he could join in. Sam’s gone. In the end he’s followed through with his plans to run away, as he said he would.

They’re in a small town three hours outside of Chicago, so chances are Sam has dragged his gangly form and duffle bag with geek books there. It’s been a week since they moved into the new old house and come to think of it, Dean should have been suspicious Sam didn’t take the time to unpack his stuff. Usually that’s Sam’s first mission wherever they go, trying to make a home out of each new box of wood and concrete they call their own for a few months. 

However the past days Sam’s bag remained blissfully untouched and the closets empty. Dean had assumed that it was some sort of quiet rebellion against their constant moving or something else Dad had done, but now he’s kindly being informed that apparently, Sam had had other plans right from the beginning.

In the carport next to the house an old Lincoln is rotting in silence, barely patched up enough to make it to the hospital and back. It’s the emergency car in case anything happens while Dad’s gone and the Impala with him. 

So maybe “Sam running away to Chicago” isn’t the sort of emergency Dad had in mind but there’s no time for making a pro and con list now. Dad’s in Minnesota hunting a poltergeist and he won’t be back until Friday. That makes four days to find Sam, or else Dean will probably be dead. Well, maybe not dead but certainly wishing he was six feet under. 

_Where’s Sam, Dean?  
He ran away, Dad. What’s for dinner tonight?_

Not a good plan, Dean thinks as he stuffs some shirts and knives and a bottle of holy water into his bag and grabs for the keys of the Lincoln. Better plan is to find Sam before Dad realises Sam’s deserted. Hurrying into the kitchen he adds a package of chips to the assortment in his bag and decorates it with a bottle of Coke on top, before he locks the house and climbs into the car. 

The engine starts at least though it bucks and whines and Dean takes it three miles before it’s in need of a refill. By the time he’s on the highway to Chicago he wishes he’d taken a Greyhound bus – takes longer but at least you’re relatively sure to actually reach your destination. The car complains about every mile that Dean whips it down the road, moaning like an old man about too much work. Every now and then it coughs and threatens to die but Dean is impatient and urges it on. 

The only reason Dean parks the car in the shabby Chicago neighbourhood is because that’s when the Lincoln finally gives up on him. With a loud bang it tells Dean that it’s got no intention of going any further until it’s had some rest, and all Dean can do is pull over so it won’t stop in the middle of the street. 

“Great,” Dean mutters with a sigh, leaning his forehead against the wheel. So now he’s in Chicago, but God knows where in Chicago. And how’s he supposed to find Sam here? If Sam’s here at all. 

Maybe Sam didn’t go to Chicago. Even if he did – almost three million people live in the Windy City.

Sam could be anywhere. 

Where’s he supposed to start? And if he can’t find Sam, how’s he going to tell Dad? What will he do, without Sam? He’s got no place to go, not even for the night. Could check into a hotel but the car isn’t going anywhere; besides he isn’t entirely sure he wants to spend a night in a hotel somewhere here. Looks like it’s an area where trash cans burn at night and people hide bodies in the trunk of your car when you’re not looking or you could get murdered for wearing the wrong shoes. _Crap_.

The day doesn’t get better when through the open window something rough and wet begins to caress his cheek. As Dean twists his head to find out just who’s so fond of his ear there’s a pair of light brown, almost amber, eyes staring back of him, embellished by a black damp noise, a pink tongue and two pointy ears. 

The forepaws are resting on the door of the car and it appears the dog – or is it a wolf? – is standing on his hind legs like a human. 

“Dude,” Dean says with his brows creased, rising his arm in protection, “get off me.”

The dog remains unimpressed, licking Dean’s face with unspoiled enthusiam. 

“ _Dude_.”

A growl is the only answer Dean receives and the rough tongue is still running up and down his face, and all Dean can see are the pink tongue and the dog’s face, in turns. 

Perfect. Not only is Sam AWOL, and the car broken down and Dean left in the middle of the Chicago ghetto, there’s also a meddlesome dog licking through his face. 

“Dude, I get that I’m pretty but this is too much, you understand?”

Tilting his head, the dog whines quietly and starts to pant right into Dean’s face. Dean grimaces. “Dude, what did you have for breakfast?”

Suddenly the view from his window is filled completely with red and a man’s voice says “Diefenbaker.”

The dog looks up to a head that’s possibly on top of the red clothing; Dean can’t see it from the driver’s seat. Another whine followed by a short bark and the voice adds, “You’re not supposed to bother strangers, Dief.” Then the red fabric – possibly a uniform judging by the line of polished buttons and the old-fashioned belt – bends forward and a face appears in Dean’s line of sight, wearing a large beige hat. 

Great. A Canadian. 

“I’m terribly sorry my wolf bothered you,” the man says in the kindest tone Dean’s ever heard, and on top of that, it doesn’t sound the least fake. _Canadians_. 

“He’s not a wolf. Wolves don’t bark,” Dean replies, too stunned to say something that actually makes sense like “no problem” or “I think he’s got the hots for me”. 

“That’s correct.” The Canadian smiles. “He’s only half-wolf actually but for the sake of his self-esteem I introduce him as my wolf. Not that he would hear me introduce him as a wolf because he is deaf, but he can read lips, and better safe than sorry.”

“Right,” Dean says with eyebrows raised, wondering whether he’ll be able to outrun the man should it come down to it. 

“May I ask you – Diefenbaker usually gets attached to people who he thinks are in need of help...so, do you need...help?”

“You’re kidding me, right?” He can possibly outrun the man, but the dog could be a problem.

“I’m afraid not,” the man says emphatically. “My name is Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”

“What’s a Mountie doing in Chicago?”

“I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father and, for reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture, I've remained, attached as liaison with the Canadian Consulate.”

“O-kay.” 

“Apologies, but you didn’t answer my question and if you don’t mind me saying, you look like you could use some help –“

“I’m fine,” Dean says, sticking his lower lip out unconsciously. The dog – Diefenbaker – whines loudly. 

“I think Diefenbaker here begs to differ.”

“What does he do, read minds?”

“I have never found out, actually.”

Dean sighs and tilts his head against the back of the seat. Apparently he isn’t going to get rid of this Mountie and his dog unless he tells him. He isn’t in the mood for lying;his back hurts and his ass hurts and he’s probably going to have to spend the night here and risk being murdered for his shoes, and then there’s the whole problem with Sam.

He's all alone, feeling like a rat in the maze that is Chicago, and for some reason a Mountie in that bright red uniform and the whole weird talk and the dog by his side is the most welcoming, warming sight Dean’s had since he got up. 

“My brother ran away,” Dean admits with hanging shoulders, “I think he’s come here.”

“Where’s your family?”

“My Dad’s on a busniess trip and I have to find Sam before he gets back or he’s going to kill me –“, Dean stops when he realises what he’s just said and quickly corrects himself, “Well, not _kill_ me kill me but you know, he’s gonna be real angry.”

“I see. And your mother?”

“She’s dead,” Dean replies in a matter-of-fact tone like he’s reading out the news of the Dow Jones, and the smile fades off the Mountie’s face. The rendition of Mom’s dead always conjures up that reaction, no matter where Dean goes. People pity him and he can’t stand that. 

“Sorry to hear that.”

Dean shrugs and crosses his arms before his chest. 

“Maybe I can help you. I have a friend with the police who –“

“No, thank you,” Dean cuts in quickly – too quickly, he knows. That’s how well Dad trained him, dammit. He can’t risk getting the police or the Feds on their trail. The Mountie licks his lips and nods understandingly. 

“You would prefer to avoid the police?”

Dean shrugs again and remains silent this time. The Mountie can’t hold him, and as soon as Dudley Do-Right is gone Dean will be out of here. Technically, if the car cooperates. 

From below Diefenbaker is whimpering a bit, sounding agitated. The Mountie twists his head to look at the dog.

“Yes, I know Dief but if he doesn’t want our help, there’s nothing we can do.” Another whine, and for the first time the thought crosses Dean’s mind that the Mountie and the dog actually communicate in some way. “Yes, I’m sure he knows it’s virtually impossible to find someone in the city without help, but what can you do? - Well, I’m sure Ray would help, and keep this off the record but I think this gentleman has made his decision.”

Dean runs a hand over his face and tries to ignore the swelling headache behind his forehead. At this point any help seems better than facing the search alone. 

“You can keep it off-record?” Dean tries to keep his voice steady and laid-back, but there’s hope swinging at the edge of each word and he doesn’t like it. 

“Yes, I think so. Ray is a good friend of mine. I’m sure we could handle this as a favor and not as an official investigation.”

Dean narrows his eyes, Dad’s voice hovering in the back of his mind about how you’re not supposed to trust anybody and should only rely on yourself. It’s easy for him to say that, Dean thinks bitterly, and maybe the Mountie actually wants to help. He’s Canadian after all. Besides if things go wrong he’ll get out of it somehow. It wouldn’t be the first police station he’s pulled a Great Escape on. 

_This could be your only chance to find him_ , a voice whispers into Dean’s ear, _you really want to waste it?_

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “Where do we start?”

“Well, I don’t own a car so we either have to walk to the police station or take yours.”

“The damn thing gave up on me,” Dean explains. “Or else I wouldn’t be hanging around in this neighbourhood.”

“I’m sure that can be fixed,” the Mountie says and the next moment he’s behind the hood and all Dean can hear are “Hmmmms” and “Ahas” mixed with rumbling sound and metal clashing on metal. The Mountie’s head pop out at the side, nodding towards Dean encouragingly. “I think it should be working now.”

Dean purses his lips and exhales sharply, turning the ignition key. And there’s the Lincoln purring like a satisfied cat as if it’d been doing it all along. Dean’s jaw drops open.

“Dude, you don’t have a car but you can fix one?”

The Mountie closes the hood and straightens his jacket. 

“Well, it’s not that hard actually with a bit of technical knowledge.”

“Whatever you say, dude.”

“So,” the Mountie continues, rocking back and forth on his boots, “would you mind giving Diefenbaker and me a ride to the police station?”

Dean shakes his head wordlessly and lets the dog and the Mountie climb in. Okay, so maybe there’s a hidden camera somewhere and Dad can watch him on the television right now making an ass of himself and trying to find Sam. What a wonderful combination. The guy can’t be for real, can he?

The next twenty-five minutes pass like a nightmare, the kind where you’re running down the street in nothing but your underwear (though come to think of it, that _has_ happened before...). There’s a frickin’ _Mountie_ and a _deaf dog_ who _thinks he’s a wolf_ sitting next to Dean, enjoying the ride. Maybe he’ll wake up if he tries really hard? Pinch his arm or something?

The police station looks like taken right out of a bad cop flick, with cops drowning in paper work and and telephones ringing non-stop. Vending and coffee machine are always occupied and the walls are lined with dirt and decay. What a wonderful place to work. Not that the motels they sleep in are much better, but unlike these people, Dean doesn’t get paid for what he does. From the looks of it, it doesn’t seem as if honest work is worthwhile.

With Diefenbaker trotting by his side, Dean follows the Mountie through a corridor where suspects and victims wait side by side on wooden benches, until the corridor opens to a big bee hive full of telephones, desks and computers. Dean’s steps become more hesitant – the lion’s den, he’s walking right into the lion’s den – but Dief nudges him to go on with a quiet rumble and Dean must be going crazy because what that rumble sounds like is an encouraging “Come _on_ ”. 

Weird.

The Mountie wriggles through the labyrinth of tables, chairs and people and stops in front of a desk that is pretty much at the back of the room. Dean stops, too, stepping aside a little so he can catch a glimpse of that cop-friend the Mountie mentioned.

The man behind the desk looks pretty young, and his blonde hair is up in spikes – Dean will have to pick that up. His own hair is usually a bit of a mop these days, falling into his face and over his eyes like a sheepdog. The cop is busy reading a magazine when they approach him and he doesn’t bother to look up, even though he must have noticed them.

“Ray,” the Mountie begins like it’s part of a ritual or something, “Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray –“

Finally, the cop – Ray – raises his head to look at them. “What? It’s my lunch-break, Fraser.”

Fraser straightens a little and points towards Dean with a nod. “We need your help.”

A smile plays around Ray’s mouth. “What is it this time?”

“Well –“ The Mountie starts off, facing Dean and the words get caught in his mouth, his forehead twists into a frown and mingles with a slightly confused expression in his eyes. 

“Dean,” Dean offers, “My name is Dean.” Then he adds, “Winchester, like the rifle.” He’s not happy about giving the cop and the Mountie his last name, but if they’re going to try and find Sam -

The Mountie turns towards the cop again. “Dean is searching for his brother Sam. He’s run away, and Dean suspects he ended up somewhere in Chicago.”

“Uh-huh,” Ray answers. Dean can’t decide whether he sounds bored or focused. 

“I told him you might help,” the Mountie says and Diefenbaker whines as if he is trying to say “But I found him!”

“How long has he been missing?” 

“This morning,” Dean replies, “but all his stuff is gone. He definitely ran away.”

“Why don’t you just file a Missing Persons report on him?”

Dean stiffens instantly and makes a small step backwards. Just in case. He is ready to bolt, every muscle tense. Apparently, however, the Mountie is on his side and willing to keep to his word. 

“Actually,” the Mountie goes on, lowering his voice, “I hoped we could help him find his brother off-record.”

The smile that has been playing around the cop’s lips emerges to a broad grin.

“So, you have some skeletons in your closet,” he states. Dean’s fingers ball to fists, but he doesn’t say anything. The cop nods as if Dean’s silence is all the evidence he needs and waves his hand dismissively. “We all have them,” he tells Dean. “Just tell me you didn’t murder anyone.”

“I didn’t,” Dean replies truthfully. He’s only killed beasts and demons so far, but no people. And he would prefer to keep it that way.

“Well, okay. So your brother’s gone missing?”

Dean nods. 

“How old is he?”

“Fourteen,” Dean says. 

“Why do you think he ran away?”

Oh, here they go. He’s got to be careful what he can and cannot say now; he needs to keep Dad out of trouble. Sentences like “Our Dad’s kinda rough on him sometimes” are especially popular with people from the social services or cops who are obliged to protect children.

“We move a lot,” Dean replies vaguely. “He doesn’t like it. He’s in puberty, and he was really furious when we moved again about a week ago.”

“You have a photo of him?”

With a nod Dean pulls out his wallet and fumbles for the photo of Sam he always carries around, for emergencies like these. He shows it to Ray and Ray looks at it for a moment, then studies Dean and frowns.

“You don’t look like brothers.”

“Thank God.”

The cop gives Dean a smile, like yeah, he can relate. Dean scratches the back of his head and jerks when something cool and wet nudges his free hand. It’s Diefenbaker.

“He seems to be rather fond of you,” the Mountie says.

“Maybe he’s in love with me.”

“I don’t think so,” The Mountie’s tone is earnest and considerate. “I think I know for a fact he’s not homosexual. But he could be bi –“

“O-kay!” Ray cuts in, clapping into his hands once. “We should get to work.” 

“That is probably a good idea.” The Mountie nods.

“Right.” Ray picks up the phone and tucks it in between his shoulder and right ear. “I will call the other police stations, see if they found him. You call the hospitals.”

For a moment Dean considers telling them that Sam’s probably not using his real name, and that asking for ‘Sam Winchester’ will probably lead to nowhere. Apparently that is a common thing with runaways, and each time the Mountie calls at a hospital and asks for Sam Winchester he includes description of Sam’s height, weight, hair and face. Every time the phone rings at the other end of the line Dean’s stomach clenches and one time he even excuses himself and rushes to the restroom because he thinks he’s about to throw up. What if someone picks up and tells them Sam’s dead? Died in an accident or was beaten to death?

They call everyone, every single hospital, every police station, until the police officers slowly begin to leave the station one by one because the afternoon has gone by and the day shift has ended. By the time the Mountie – Fraser – and Ray are finished asking around, night is beginning to cloak Chicago and the city lights come on. For the last two hours Dean’s been seated in a chair, watching and listening, with Diefenbaker sitting by his side, his muzzle resting on Dean’s thigh. There’s not much Dean can do and Ray and Fraser won’t let him do anything else, so Dean is doomed to waiting and twiddling his thumbs. Once or twice his legs twitch and he almost jumps up from his chair to run out and search the streets, one by one. But that would probably leave him on his own and with a city as big as Chicago, he needs all the help he can muster if he wants to find Sam. So Dean waits.

Eventually, after everybody’s already long home and having dinner with their families, Ray puts the receiver of his phone down and scratches his neck before he addresses Dean: “That was the last hospital. No sign of your brother. I think we should call it a night, Dean. You look pretty beat and I’m tired and even Fraser needs a little sleep once in a while. We’re no good to you or Sam fallin’ asleep over the phone.”

Dean’s stomach drops, and he just hopes he’ll be able to move his feet and out of the police station. _I have to find him_ , is all that rushes through his mind over and over again like a distress signal, but Dean forces himself to nod. 

“Do you have a place to go?” Ray asks. Dean just shrugs. 

“I’ll find something.”

“You could stay at the consulate for the night. It would be a makeshift bed on the floor, I’m afraid, but it is safe and warm and we could continue our investigation first thing tomorrow,” the Mountie offers. Politely, of course.

Everything inside of Dean tenses up like he’s been struck by a lightning. His fingers clasp around the arms of the chair, and Diefenbaker growls quietly, nudging Dean with his muzzle. The voice of his dad thunders through his mind -- never trust anyone, least of all strangers, very least of all strangers who happen to be cops. Going with them, going to the consulate could be like walking into the lion’s den unarmed, or into Hell. It would be staring into the Wolf’s mouth like Little Red Riding Hood, an open invitation to be devoured. 

On the other hand, he doesn’t have a place to stay. He could sleep in the car, of course, but the prospect isn’t too tempting. Also – he’s been trained in karate and combat fighting and can master about every Marine trick, none of which Ray or Fraser know about. Should it come down to it, chances are good he’ll be able to handle himself. _Play along, Dean_ , a small voice pipes into his ears, _don’t risk finding Sam_.

Ray and Fraser stare at him expectantly, Ray from his desk and Fraser standing beside him, straight and upright like a tin soldier. The way he can just stand there and not move is freaky, and Dean adds it to his mental list of Creepy Things, putting it on eighth place which up until then belonged to Mother Fratelli from _The Goonies_. 

Finally, Dean pushes himself up and bobs his head upwards and downwards. “Okay. Thank you.”

When Dean steps into the consulate, it’s like he steps through a gate and back in time. He hesitates a moment before he follows Fraser into the entrance hall, wondering if this place is real or if he’s been sucked into some alternate dimension. With the old fashioned furniture and the impressive staircase leading up to the next floor, he halfway expects women in big poofy dresses and men in blue Yankee uniforms to join them. 

“Welcome to Canada,” Fraser says as Dean closes the heavy wooden door behind him.

Dean blinks. “Huh?” 

You’re on Canadian soil now, bound by Canadian law.”

“And is that a good or a bad thing?”

Fraser smiles but doesn’t reply; instead he gestures Dean to follow him and walks towards a door on the left side, passing by the stairs. Diefenbaker nudges Dean’s hand as if he, too, is urging Dean to follow him, then joins Fraser. With a shrug and the feeling that maybe this wasn’t such a great idea after all, Dean trails after them. 

The room Fraser enters looks like an office that hasn’t been used in a long time, not like a bedroom. Dean stops in the doorway and watches with his eyebrows up as Fraser pulls a pile of blankets and pillows from a closet on the right. With his chin, the Mountie indicates a folding bed leaning against the wall. 

“You can use the bed, if you like.”

Dean steps forward. “Is this where you live?”

“It is indeed.” 

Again Dean’s eyebrows goes up, doubtfully this time, as his eyes inspect the room, finally resting on Fraser. 

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Why would I be kidding you?” Fraser looks around with his brows creased. 

“Well, “ Dean replies, shoving his hands into his pockets, “don’t you have, like, an apartment or something? Even motels are nicer than this closet.”

“I used to have an apartment but the building burnt down, and ever since I’ve been living here. I rarely spend time at this place anyway. The room is sufficient.” Fraser pauses, then adds, “Like I said, you can have the bed.”

“And where are you gonna camp out?”

“The floor in the hallway. I don’t mind sleeping on the ground. I’ve done it many times up in the Yukon.”

“Good for you.” 

“Yes, I think so, too.” 

Fraser places a blanket and pillow on the cot, and grabs the rest of the blankets. “Well then, have a good night.”

“I can take the floor,” Dean offers. “I can sleep anywhere.”

Fraser waves his hand dismissively. “No, it’s okay. I haven’t had a chance to sleep on the floor for quite a while. I look forward to it.”

“Right,” Dean mutters as Fraser passes him by and and closes the door – though not all the way. Maybe he wants to be sure Dean doesn’t bolt in the middle of the night, or maybe the dog is used to being allowed to go anywhere, like a cat. From the hallway noises drown in as Fraser sets up his bed. Dean sighs, sets up his own bed and unfolds the blanket, kicks off his shoes and curls up on the cot in his street clothes. He didn’t bother to bring a pajama or anything to sleep in; he'd hoped he wouldn't have to spend a night in Chicago 

Time ticks on; Dean can hear it clearly from the clock at the wall. The city outside grows quieter, though not silent, and Dean’s thoughts always return to Sam: it must be cold outside. Hopefully he found a warm place to stay. Hopefully he’s okay. He’s _got_ to be okay, or else Dean won’t know what to do.

He turns around and rolls on his back, then on his side again. Every time he closes his eyes, the images of Sam shivering and coughing flash up along with snippets of Sam stabbed or shot, so Dean doesn’t close his eyes and stares at the blue square in the wall that is the window, and the city lights beyond. 

With a creak the door opens a bit and panting mingles with the noises of the city. Diefenbaker taps in, grumbling quietly when he sees that Dean’s still awake. He places his head on the mattress and looks up to Dean worriedly. Dogs can perceive human distress and sadness, or so Dean has read, and Diefenbaker seems to be the living proof. Dean ruffles the hair behind Dief’s ears. 

“You can’t sleep either, hm?”

Dief growls, and jumps on the mattress, climbing over Dean carefully, then dropping next to him. 

“Dude!”

Diefenbaker growls again and it sounds like he’s saying “ _Chill_ , man.” His head is now resting on Dean’s waist, and the fur is ticklling Dean’s bare arms. The presence of the wolf is strangely soothing, and if Dean didn’t know better he’d say Diefenbaker is trying to comfort him. 

“You think Sammy’s okay?” Dean whispers. Another whiny growl-sound escapes Diefenbaker and in Dean’s head it means “Of course he is”, and since the wolf’s got no reason to lie to him, Dean chooses to believe him. 

Eventually, Dean does fall asleep.

***

The next morning, the cop – Ray – picks them up in his car. 

“Nice ride,” Dean comments as he climbs into the backseat, Diefenbaker joining him. 

“You like it?” Ray asks with a proud smile. 

“Yeah. My dad drives a ’67 Chevy Impala.”

“Smooth.” After a pause, Ray adds, “This used to be my dad’s car.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, honestly. Maybe your dad will give you his car one day, too.”

Dean shakes his head. “Never. He loves that thing too much.”

“Sounds familiar.”

The door on the passenger side closes as Fraser, too, climbs into the car. Dean leans back and crosses his arms, waiting. The engine rumbles and purrs and it’s almost like home, only he is without Sam and Dad and the Impala but with a deaf wolf instead. And a cop and a Mountie, on top. If Dad finds out, he’ll probably first shout at Dean for being so stupid and then assume his son has gone nuts. 

“Ray, I think we should try all possible shelters at first. Official places where runaways seek refuge. If we don’t find Sam there, we should probably stop by the unofficial places, such as abandoned warehouses that we know are gathering places for homeless children.”

Dean’s stomach tightens up. He doesn’t like the sound of that. All he can do is hope that Sam spent the night somewhere safe. 

“Sounds like a plan,” Ray says, hitting the road. 

They canvass the youth shelters first, and by the time they’re done it’s already noon and there still is no sign of Sam. No one seems to have seen him, and if they had, they’d remember Sam – wouldn’t they? It’s Sam, after all. 

Ray and Fraser keep chatting and arguing over seemingly small things, while Dean sits in the back with his stomach feeling as if someone’s punched him hard, and his ice cold fingers dug into Diefenbaker’s fur; the wolf has decided that Dean is a nice place lie and has sprawled himself across Dean’s legs. 

“I’m just saying,” Fraser says, “If everyone would change their cars for bicycles we would have less trouble with the ozone layer.”

“You want me to give up my car?” Ray sounds annoyed and Dean sympathises. 

“Well, it’s just a car.” Fraser shrugs. 

“Just a car?” Dean knows the tone. It’s the same Sam’s got whenever Dean tells him that “it’s just grades”. Only a car is a car, not just grades.

Ray huffs. “It’s not just a car! It’s a being of steel and cords, you know, like the robot in that movie with Steve Guttenberg that becomes alive when the lightning hits it. Only my baby doesn’t need lightning but it’s alive, she hears everything.”

“She’s a machine.”

“That’s so... _Canadian_ of you.” 

A smile creeps across Dean’s face, at least he isn’t the only one who finds Fraser alien and weird and so... Canadian.

“Ray, you don’t have to blame everything on me being from Canada. I assure you, we have cars in Canada, too, though granted it might be fewer. “

“That’s because more people live in Chicago than in all of Canada.”

“The population of Canada is not vital in this discussion, Ray. All I proposed is that if more people would dispose of their cars and ride bicycles or horses instead, they would do Mother Nature a great favor.”

“Unlike in Canada, not everyone here has a horse or a donkey or a reindeer to ride. And I love my car. My dad gave it to me.”

“But you don’t have to drive it everywhere. You could just leave it at home.”

“What’s the point of having a car if you don’t use it?” Ray drums his fingers on the steering wheel and sighs deeply. 

“My point exactly. No need for cars.”

“So, you want the ambulance to use carriages then?”

“Well,” Fraser offers slowly with a frown on his face, “They would have to use cars, naturally.”

“What about the police?”

Fraser sighs. “You’re willingly ignoring the point of this discussion.”

“Yes,” Ray grins, “So what?”

“I’m just trying to show you –“ 

“Fraser, you’ll never get Americans to abandon their cars,” Ray cuts him off.

“Word,” Dean agrees from the backseat. Fraser turns around with his eyebrows raised. 

“So you’re in favor of destroying Mother Nature? The world that provides you with food and air?” 

Damn, he sounds exactly like Dean’s biology teacher in seventh grade. Was she Canadian? Dean shrugs. “I think every man is entitled to have a car, and love it.”

“Thank you!” Ray’s voice chimes from the driver’s seat. Fraser sighs heavily, and turns to face the front again, shaking his head. 

They check several abandoned warehouses after that, where kids sleep on air matresses and piles of blankets and lived in between dirt, rat droppings and mildew. Most of them are clothed in rags, dirty and torn shirts and jeans, with greasy hair and eyes that said they’ve suffered, and they know about hunger and cold

Unearthly creatures that look like they’ve been ripped from another dimension somewhere else, they don’t belong here anymore. 

If they don’t find Sam, will he become one of them? Will he turn into one of those soulless shadows thath exist outside of life, outside of the known world? Dean shuts his eyes firmly and stubbornly swallows down the lump in his throat. Diefenbaker nudges him a little, fur brushing against Dean’s neck, and Dean decides to interpret it as the wolf’s way of teling him “Chin up.” 

Meanwhile the sky’s turned a darker shade of blue, and the sun is throwing some final rays of light at the skyscrapers idly, and before long it will sink beneath the horizon. 

“Dean, have you got any idea where else he could be?” Ray asks. Dean tries to think but every time he does images of Sam hurt or frozen or hungry jump onto the tracks of Dean’s train of thought. _Think Dean, think – where could he be? Where would your geeky brother go? Library? No – he may be a hard-studying geek but he’s not that fond of books. He’d go somewhere more normal, where he can hang out in between families and pretend he’s one of them._

***

They arrive at Lincoln Park Zoo about thirty minutes before closing time. The lady at the counter lets them in when Ray shows his badge and explains their business, and informs them that most visitors have already left. Dean’s heart sinks. Too late – if Sam’s been here they’re probably too late. That stupid control freak probably already left an hour ago just to make sure he wouldn’t get locked in over night in between tigers, giraffes and bears. 

“We’ll be quick,” Fraser assures the lady. “Thank you kindly.”

“Think.” Ray places a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Where would he go? What animals does he like best?”

Dean shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, and he hates the helplessness in his voice. “He’s a dork. Probably everything...” He bites his lower lip and runs a hand through his face, then he remembers something. “When we were little, he always spent the longest looking at the bears.”

“That’s a start. Come on.” Fraser quickens his pace, and Ray, Dean and Dief follow. 

The Zoo is almost deserted and as they hurry along the various cages and enclosures they only meet a few other people, all heading towards the exit. Most of the animals have already been brought inside, and the ones that still linger outside seem to be waiting to be let into their houses. Now that the sun has set, the temperature is dropping rapidly. 

Dean doesn’t spot Sam at first when they enter the polar bear house. It’s dark and empty, and Dean’s so sure they’ve missed Sam that he almost does. There’s someone standing by the big viewing window, a black shape against the blue water, leaning idly against the frame. Even from the distance and with the person’s back to him, Dean recognises his brother. Sam. It’s Sam. 

Dean stops when his heart tightens up and his feet refuse to take any more steps. His legs are leaden, his body unwilling. 

“What is it?” Ray asks quietly. 

“It’s him.” Dean’s voice is toneless. Not even his vocal chords are inclined to do more than they absolutely must. His throat is closing up.

He’s found Sam. 

And now what should he do? What if Sam won’t come home? What if he won’t talk to Dean? What if he tries to outrun Dean? What if he’s hurt somehow? What if – 

In the end, Diefenbaker takes the first step. He rushes past them and trots over to Sam, sitting down before him and whining quietly. Sam, all shadows, bends down and pets Diefebaker behind the ears.

“Where do you come from?” Sam’s voice echoes through the hallway, words bouncing back from the walls. That kid is only fourteen but with a voice so deep it’d make Johnny Cash jealous. Dief whines again and then Sam turns around, and Dean’s heart skips a beat. He stiffens, straightening. His heart is pounding like he’s just run a marathon. He can’t move. 

Sam doesn’t run away. He just keeps standing by the window though he must have seen Dean, but he doesn’t move either. He looks like a statue from the distance, and they stare at each other like duelling cowboys in a western movie. 

Fingers poke into Dean’s back and push him, and dimly Dean hears Ray say, “Go.” Dean stumbles forward like a toddler taking his first steps. He finds his balance, but with each step bringing him nearer to Sam his legs grow heavier until Dean thinks he’ll never reach Sam, not if he can’t lift his feet. Sam won’t come to him. 

He doesn’t know how, but suddenly he’s standing beside Sam and he finds himself checking Sam’s face and hands for bruises and wounds rapidly, just in case Sam should decide to bolt after all. The pressure in his chest eases when he can't find anything wrong. Sam seems fine. That’s something at least. 

They both turn and face the window for a while, peering into the icy blue water. Sam’s eyes are fixed on a point far away, and once or twice Dean glances at Sam, just to make sure Sam’s still really there. He could reach out his hand and touch Sam, but he can’t muster up the strength to do it. 

“Do you remember my eighth birthday?” Sam's voice breaks the stillness

“Yeah, I do.” 

“We went to the Zoo that day.” His voice is warm and mellow, no hint of the cold bitterness Dean had expected. “Dad, you and me. We were a normal family that day.”

Dean nods; there is no point in denying. Just like there is no point in asking why Sam took off. Dean already knows. 

“I wish Dad would just let us be like other people.” 

“He does the best he can.”

“Yeah, “ Sam snorts, “I bet.”

The discussion is going nowhere, so Dean changes the topic.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, but I couldn’t find you.”

A smirk emerges on Sam’s face. “So you brought the Canadians?”

“And their wolves.”

“Right.”

“With those puppy eyes of yours, it’s almost like looking for relatives.”

Sam chuckles, and he twists his head to look at Dean. Dean’s heart leaps, bouncing against his chest. 

“How did you know I was in Chicago?”

“Dude, despite what you might think, I’m not stupid.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

A pause, before Dean asks, his voice hoarse, “Will you come home?”

Usually, he’d tell Sam to come home,period. But this is about Sam making his own decisions, about no one overruling his life – Dean has a feeling. So he’s got to give Sam a choice, even if he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Sam makes the wrong one. His hands are sweaty and his stomach turns upside down at least four times while he waits for the answer. Hours pass by -- or maybe it’s just seconds, but they feel like hours. Diefenbaker’s paws scratch on the ground as he inspects the surroundings; everything else remains still. Sam narrows his eyes and stares into the blue again. 

_Please, Sammy, please say you’ll come home._

When Sam nods slowly and says, “Yeah, okay,” Dean releases a breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding, leaning against the pane helplessly. His legs hurt and his back hurts and his head hurts from the lack of sleep, but none of it matters.

Sam’s coming home.

Fraser invites them to spend the night at the Consulate so they won’t have to drive back all the way in the dark. The Lincoln’s still parked there anyway. Dean wants home and he wants a bed, and in the end his craving for a bed and sleep wins. They pick up Sam’s stuff at the main train station; Sam’s put his things in a rented locker there. He doesn’t tell Dean where he’ spent the previous night, whether he spent it at all sleeping, and the thought of asking him makes Dean's throat go tight. 

The Consulate impresses Sam just as much as it did Dean – when Sam enters his eyes widen with amazment and his jaw drops slightly. His long legs take ridiculously small and quiet steps, as if he’s not sure he’s allowed to walk around and disturb the majestic silence hanging over the place. 

Dean scuffles on into the office where he slept last night, every muscle and bone in his body is aching. Behind him Sam shuffles along, while Ray and Fraser remain in the hallway near the entrance, talking quietly to each other. Dean points to the bed. “You can have it, Sam. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Sam shakes his head. “I’m not tired yet. You take it.”

Dean’s tempted to leave it at that, until he remembers that Sam probably didn’t have a bed the previous night and deserves it more than Dean does right now. “You take –“ he begins, but Sam quickly cuts in. 

“Look, I’m not tired yet and you look like shit. If it means that much to you, I can just wake you up when I decide to go to bed, okay?”

Dean sighs, headache throbbing behind his forehead, lids heavy, his eyes sore. The bed looks so inviting that in the end Dean nods silently and drops on the mattress, flinging himself across it. His eyes fall closed instantly, but he forces them open abruptly when he hears Sam’s footsteps on the floor. “You’re not running away again, are you?”

“No,” Sam replies quietly, and after a short moment he adds: “I’m not. I promise.”

And with that, Dean finally surrenders himself to exhaustion and sleep. The last thing he hears before he dozes off is the sound of paws clicking on the floor, and the feeling of warm fur snuggled against his back. 

***

Sam hears them talking, voices floating through the house from an office down the hallway. For a moment he considers going back into the other room where Dean is sleeping, that wolfish looking dog by his side, but then he decides against it. He hasn’t been entirely truthful, he could use a bed – but Dean looked so beaten and exhausted Sam didn’t have the heart to tell him about his own tiredness. Besides, he doesn’t mind crashing on the floor somewhere, either. In his fourteen years of life, he’s definitely had worse. Like that one time when they’d been out hunting a black dog in the forests and they’d been surprised by nightfall and a thunderstorm, and they had to huddle up against a rock and hope for the rain to pass and the sun to rise. 

Sam approaches them quietly, but before he’s even raised his hand to knock on the door Fraser’s voice reaches him. “Come in, Sam.”

Sam pushes the door open and there they are, the cop and the Mountie, sitting by a huge wooden desk, engaged in a conversation. They look up when Sam enters, and Fraser smiles welcomingly.

“How did you know it was me?”

“I heard you,” Fraser explains, “Your walking pattern is different from your brother’s.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “You can hear that?” 

“Indeed, I can.”

“That’s _awesome.”_

“Thank you kindly.” 

Silence emerges, only interrupted by the ticking of the clock at the wall. Wiggling his toes, Sam shoves his hands into his pockets. 

“Have you seen Diefenbaker?” 

“He’s keeping Dean company,” Sam tells Fraser as he drops into one of the unoccupied chairs. 

“Is your brother sleeping?”

Sam scratches the back of his head. “Yeah.”

“Maybe you should get some rest, too,” Fraser suggests. 

“Maybe later.” 

“Can I ask you a question?” Ray pops in. Sam shrugs, even though he knows what’s coming. _Why did you run away? Is home that bad? Should we consider other options? Is your dad treating you badly?_

“Why did you agree to come home just like that?” Sam looks up, well aware of the blank surprise that must be showing all over his face. 

“Huh? “

“I mean, I thought there would be arguments and name-calling and maybe a fist fight...” 

“Sounds like you’re talking from experience.” 

Ray smiles in a way that confirms Sam’s assumption. Or maybe that’s just what he likes to think, and he’s interpreting things, transferring his own emotions onto others. Sam shrugs again. 

“I didn’t really _really_ want to leave home,” he finally offers. 

“So what, you were just trying to prove your point?” Ray sounds skeptical.

Sam shakes his head slowly. “No, I wanted to run away. For about twenty-four hours. Then – He smiles at the thought. “- I started to miss my annoying brother. Even my dad. But I would have never granted my dad the satisfaction of caving in and admitting it. So I’m really glad Dean found me.”

“You really scared your brother,” Fraser says thoughtfully. 

“Yeah, I bet. He likes to control my life and when I’m not there...”

“I actually thought he was just terribly worried something would happen to you. That doesn’t have anything to do with gaining control over someone’s life. It’s merely a human response to the possibility that you might lose something or someone very dear to you.” Fraser’s eyes are firmly fixed upon Sam, who averts his eyes at the Mountie’s words. 

“Maybe,” Sam mutters barely audible. 

“Fraser’s right,” Ray adds. “You almost gave your brother a heart attack. Now, I don’t know what’s going on in your family or how you two get along, but you shouldn’t doubt how much you mean to him. You know, older brothers don’t always treat you right but that’s just the way they are.”

“No, believe me, Dean’s one of a kind.”

“Still –“ Ray leans back into the arm chair “- if you ever plan on running away again, it should be to someplace where your brother can reach you and knows you’re safe. “

Sam looks up again and tries to blink tiredness away. “I think I can do that.”

They stay up all night talking, until early in the morning when Dean wakes up and comes trotting into the office, his hair sticking out in every direction. 

“Charming,” Sam greets him.

“Oh, shut up.” Dean’s voice is raw and thick from sleep, but a smile is playing around his lips, softening the harsh words.

***

They leave a few hours later. Sam’s barely seated himself into the passenger seat when his eyes fall shut and his body demands some rest, overpowering Sam’s stubborn mind. And so he’s slouched in the seat snoring quietly as Dean says goodbye to Ray, Fraser and Diefenbaker. 

“Thank you for helping me and, you know, keeping it off-record.” Dean offers his hand and Fraser takes it. 

“Sam’s a good kid,” he says. “Take care of him.”

Dean nods. “I will.”

“Drop by if you ever come to Chicago again,” Ray says with a smile. 

“I might,” Dean replies, returning the smile, knowing he won’t. The only reason he’ll ever come to Chicago again is if there’s a job to be done, and he can’t draw people like Fraser or Ray into that. Their world is different from the Universe Of Winchester, and it’s good that way. The fewer people who go through what they went through, who know what the Winchesters know, the better. 

Last of all, Dean leans forward and ruffles Diefenbaker’s fur behind his ears. “Thank you, dude. I wouldn’t have found Sammy without you. Take care.” 

Diefenbaker licks Dean’s face in response. Dean grimaces, but pets Dief’s muzzle gently before he straightens again, smiles and climbs into the driver’s seat. As the engine starts Diefenbaker barks twice, and Dean yells “I will Dief, I will!” before pulling over and manouevering the Lincoln on the street. 

Dean watches the Mountie, Ray and the wolf fade away in the rear mirror until they’re gone, and Dean is on his way home.

-end-


End file.
